


look at me; look at you

by governmenting (clockworkduchess)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, F/F, Pining, Summer, a lot of questioning, a lot of uncertainty, bi character, celebrating female relationships, celebrating youth, especially clear: two girl best friends having the time of their lives, just two gay bffs, let me be very clear: two best friends being gay, sexual awakening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 12:03:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18777895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkduchess/pseuds/governmenting
Summary: those summer nights, you looked at her when she wasn’t looking at you. those summer nights; you missed how she wanted you too.





	look at me; look at you

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my drafts for a long time titled [my gay crisis] 
> 
> this is for all you guys crushing on your friends. hang in there.

 

 

It starts out hot and slow.

 

Your sexual awakening? Your desire for your best friend? Or the actual summer itself?

 

-

 

Surfacing from the lake, water streaming off her body. She looks like something you shouldn’t be looking at.

 

You don’t know how to swim, you’re content with sitting on the stones bordering the lake. The damp creeps up and the seat of your shorts is cold when you stand up to hand her a towel.

 

She grabs it from you and your hands brush, just like any other time, but your knuckles come back with droplets of water and you stare at them. You look back up to her but she’s drying off. You look away; you don’t stare, not at her.

 

-

 

Summer after summer, your two families come to the lake. A tradition that’s been around since before you two were born, back when your grandparents were still alive and good friends. You’ve grown up with her, some years seeing her more often than others. Some years closer to her than others.

 

Whenever you’re together you’re stuck at the hip, touching all the time, never not anywhere without the other.

 

This summer, it feels different. You notice the swell of her chest underneath her shirt, the way her hips look underneath her favourite sundress, the long sway of her hair as it drapes over her shoulders. It’s different.

 

She looks at you weird, ever since she caught you staring a little too long. You brush it off, saying that it’s just how fast you both have changed, but maybe she knows it’s not just that. The looks go away and you feel a bit lighter. Maybe she’s okay with it being not just that.

 

You don’t think your grandparents planned for this to happen. Maybe when they were building the cabin together, staining the place with their memories and time, they entertained the possibility of the two families joining.

 

If you were a boy, maybe it would’ve been easier. But maybe, she likes you better the way you are.

 

You like her just the way she is – in a way that makes you feel older than before.

 

-

 

You’ve never thought of anyone like you think of her. It’s always been her or nothing. From the first summer, one you can’t remember, to the very last, one you can’t even think of. Your very first clear memory is of her. Distinct.

 

-

 

She goes swimming, again and again. This summer is hotter than the previous year’s, and the lake is a little bit shallower than it was last year, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Again and again, you look at the tracks she leaves behind in the water, soft ripples that disappear quickly. You wait on the rocks with a towel and she always manages to leave droplets of water on your knuckles that drip down the gaps between your fingers and dry out on your palm.

 

Always, she steps out of the lake. Always, the water streams down her body. Always, you try not to stare, but you catch her eye anyway.

 

She knows.

 

But maybe not fully; just a little bit.

 

-

 

She’s your best friend. She’ll understand. She’ll understand, but.

 

That stops you, stalls you.

 

That summer passes. Later, you can barely recall anything except the feeling of her on you as she hugs you goodbye ( _see you next year_ ), the heat of her body on yours ( _just keep in touch, yeah_ ), her gaze on you ( _I miss you already_ ).

 

Just a part of growing up, you reason.

 

( _I miss you already_ , you say in the car. The lake, the cabin, looks tiny. She looks even smaller.)

 

-

 

The next summer, it’s different, just like last year. The second she steps out of the car, you know it’ll be just the same.

 

You’ve kept in touch, always, during the past year, but it’s so different when she’s right in front of you.

 

The way you want her burns and you hope it doesn’t show up on your face.

 

_Hey_ , she mouths.

 

You wave, your hand darting up, and suddenly you’re self-conscious about the way your palm looks, if your fingers are curling down, or stiff and straight. If your arm looks wooden, if your expression is sullen, if your hair is lank and dull. You lower your hand slowly.

 

She grins and turns to unload the car. You move to help her.

 

You can try harder this year. Be a good friend.

 

-

 

At night, you climb into the bed you’ve been sharing with her since you were little. Your parents have tried to get you two separated, but you two claim that it gets cold in your room at night.

 

She immediately kicks off the blankets and turns to face you. She asks you how the past year was, and you find yourself telling her all the things you couldn’t through texts and hushed phone calls. It’s much better face to face.

 

She tells you about her first boyfriend. Her first “real” kiss ( _but it doesn’t count, because you were my first_ , she’ll whisper to you later, when you’re asleep), how he felt up against her, his hot hands underneath her shirt.

 

You gasp, like a good friend, and it’s reassuring that the lights are off because that means she can’t see how your smile wavers and the way you try to see if she’s truly happy. 

 

A good friend would put her first. You will put her first.

 

-

 

You start getting bothered by it.

 

When you sit down by the campfire, she’s already there with her own marshmallow. It’s black, just how she likes it. She peels off the burnt skin and quickly licks up the gooey stuff inside.

 

You watch. Happens every year, but now it’s caught you off-guard.

 

But you’re bothered.

 

You go back up to the room. You’re already in bed when she comes in, skin warm from the fire. You shut your eyes and hope she doesn’t try and talk to you about him again.

 

She doesn’t.

 

She’s secretly bothered too.

 

You don’t know; you weren’t looking.

 

-

 

Late afternoon, you walk in with two glasses of lemonade and she grabs them from you, placing them on the desk.

 

_You’re making this so much harder than it should be_ , her voice is so quiet, and then she closes the door behind you.

 

The lemonade leaves wet circles of condensation on the wood of the desk.

 

-

 

And so, it starts out hot and slow. The slide of her tongue against yours. Her puff of breath somewhere near your ear as she tilts her head to drag her lips down the length of your throat. Your back solid against the wall, her arms warm where they reach down to hug your waist, pulling you tight against her. You make a sound, little and quiet, stuck in the base of your throat, but she hears it anyway, feels it vibrate underneath the thin skin covering the divot between your collarbones. You feel her smile as she presses down, chasing the sound.

 

You can smell her shampoo, the scent of her skin, the detergent from her clothes, summer rolling of her in waves. It’s messing with you. There’s too much to focus on, so you focus on the feeling of her exploring.

 

Her fingers trace over your shoulders lightly, nudging away the straps of your singlet. Her eyes are open, marvelling at the way the fabric droops down and shows a little bit more sun-warm skin. Your hands clutch at the back of her flimsy sundress that she likes to wear, tight on her waist, short against her thighs.

 

“Just take it off,” she murmurs, eyes flicking up to meet yours briefly, before kissing you again. You slip the dress off her shoulders, and she shivers when you run your hands down her back, her waist, the dips of her hips, to loosen the dress. You run your fingers along the waistband of her underwear and she presses closer, until your hand is flat along the jut of her hip, thumb pressing into the hollow.

 

You feel the press of her through your singlet. She pulls it off you. Her thumbs hook into your shorts and tug both your underwear and shorts down. You step out of them.

 

Her smile turns wicked, and she pulls you close again, pressing her warm mouth to your neck. She crowds you onto the bed and you both fall back onto it with a soft sound of a crescendo rolling to a satisfying finality. She kneels between your legs, settling her weight on her feet. She bites her lip.

 

There, looking at her and her flushed cheeks, you wonder – what happened between the summer before and the summer now for her to be so _different_?

 

But it’s good to know she wants you like you want her. It’s good to know she’s been waiting too.

 

She tugs off her own underwear. She cocks her head, _you okay?_ , and you nod.

 

She settles her hands close to your hipbones, thumbs just brushing the junction where your pelvis becomes thigh. You shiver, and she comes forward, breasts just brushing yours, lips just brushing yours.

 

You arch up.

 

-

 

_See you next year_ , and she swallows the words from your lips.

 

_Keep in touch_ , she looks up at you from between your thighs.

 

_I miss you already_ , murmured somewhere near your temple.

 

**Author's Note:**

> tell me your thoughts....?


End file.
